The last temptation of Test cricket

by VIN MASKELL

ONCE upon a time, up until last summer in fact, it was imperative to continue a personal tradition of more than 30 years: make sure I see or hear the first ball of the first over of the first Test of the summer. On the television, on the radio or, if need be, on the net. Miss the first ball and you may as well skip the whole summer.

And even if I didn't catch much cricket for the rest of the season there was an inner pride in knowing that I had made the effort - despite work, despite family, despite life - to witness that first ball.

It was a late teens habit that became a ritual, a minor indulgence that became a necessity, an act of faith in a sport that has beguiled me since I was a boy.

This summer I didn't bother with the first ball of the first over. Or the second or the third or the fourth. More to the point, I was determined not to watch any of the first two Tests.

Why? Two reasons. Firstly, dominance is boring. And dominance begets arrogance. And an arrogant bore is the worst kind.

Not that it is Australia's fault for playing so well and feeling so confident. Sustained excellence is a noble pursuit and a fine achievement. But continual victory becomes predictable. And cricket, for the most part, is a very predictable game. Just ask a non-believer.

Secondly, there's just too much international cricket. Cricket is an endless summer now, as Australia seemingly plays Tests - and Fifty50 and Twenty20 cricket - all the time all over the place.

So I steered clear of the radio and the television as Australia thumped Sri Lanka, only checking the scores in the morning paper.

There was a moment at a pub on the third day's play of the second Test when I caught a distant glimpse of Bellerive as the barman changed channels. But I kept my eyes diverted and watched the Sunday afternoon band in the corner singing about home renovations and brawls at the Union Hotel.

Working from home on the last day of the second Test I did hope that Sri Lanka was making a fist of the game in Hobart, that they might manage a draw at least. So, in-between waiting for emails and hanging out the washing in the hot wind I must admit I flicked on the telly at about 12.30pm.

There was Simon O'Donnell and Ian Healey discussing viewers' emails. Riveting stuff. But was it raining in Tasmania or was the game already over? I was praying for rain.

About two hours later, in-between answering emails and bringing in the washing, I discovered that Channel Nine was screening an American daytime soapie. Australia must have won. More dominance. More victory. More trophies. Ho-hum.

It really will be an endless summer if this keeps up. I'll be better off going down to the local ground and watching the suburban and church teams playing games that have their own drama. Even if a game finishes early I won't have to sit and watch soap operas or discussions between O'Donnell and Healey. I can go to the beach, for instance. Or play some driveway cricket with my sons, using our plastic yellow stumps (which they bought for me a few summers back).

But one tradition is still with me. Come the Boxing Day Test I'll head to the MCG on the second or third day's play and hope to find a spot behind the bowler's arm. When that tradition goes, the game will have well and truly lost me. It's the last temptation of Test cricket.

23 November 2007

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